


devil on my shoulder

by graciewrites



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games, The Hunger Games (Movies), The Hunger Games (Movies) RPF
Genre: 74th Hunger Games, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Divergence - The Hunger Games, Careers (Hunger Games), Character Death, Clato - Freeform, District 2, Explicit Language, Hunger Games Tributes, Mentor AU, Mentor/Tribute, Multi, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, The Hunger Games AU, cato is the victor/mentor and clove is the tribute, victor au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23658367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graciewrites/pseuds/graciewrites
Summary: that’s the thing about people like clove, you never know how dangerous they are until you’ve got a knife between the eyes. but cato has always known and that’s why he picks her.
Relationships: Cato & Clove (Hunger Games), Cato (Hunger Games)/Original Character(s), Cato/Clove (Hunger Games), Katniss Everdeen & Peeta Mellark, Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 23
Kudos: 84





	1. before

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to yet another clove and cato hunger games fic. the only real difference here is that it’s not 2012 and i no longer have some sort of death wish out for glimmer.
> 
> for a while now, i’ve been writing a LOT of modern!clato and dont get me wrong, i do love a good modern story… but being cooped up in a house bc of miss rona has inspired me to start reading again and low and behold, a sister has re-read the hunger games. hence what inspired me to write this long awaited draft in my google docs. 
> 
> this story is 10000% inspired by thg and will feature scenes that are heavily replicated from the book. however, it will not be anywhere near canon. the death order is different, some of the tributes may be different, and obviously, cato is a mentor/victor. oh and, it’s a HEA… bc we do not stan sad endings here (im looking at you star wars). 
> 
> an-knee-waze, i hope you guys enjoy this absolute clusterfuck of a story. please be mindful that this is a mature story, hehe. there will be other warnings in notes on different chapters if needed. kay, well, with all that being said… buckle up for the clato slow burn grace has been deprived of writing lately.
> 
> please leave comments if you enjoyed this at all bc it means a lot to see y’all enjoy something i write and it gives me motivation to keep updating. if you wanna get in touch with me at all you can find me on twitter and instagram with the username @sithclove.  
> thanks for reading and may the odds be ever in your favor. 
> 
> playlist link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/48t9bt1mSJB5WBmdtrlzVw?si=mIvppenFSUKqt-w-gwsSCA

“Do it,” the trainer barks, jaw clenched in anger. “How do you expect to kill a person if you can’t kill a chicken?” 

_ It’s done nothing wrong _ , Clove thinks. 

The trainer snaps his fingers in her face. “You hear me?”

“There’s a difference,” says Clove, looking up at the man. She’s so short she can see right up his nose. “The chicken hasn’t tried to kill me. It’s innocent. I have no reason to-“

_ Crack. _

“See? Easy.” the trainer tosses aside the now lifeless chicken. “Trust no one. Not even a chicken.” 

Clove stares at the man in silence, thinking of ways she could carve out his eyes or cut off his hands. There’s light bickering behind her. The other trainees watching her fail, yet again. 

“When you signed up for this, you should have expected it to be anything but fun, Miss Rivers.”

Clove bites her tongue. 

“You failed. Again. Back to the line now.” the man, who’s balding quickly, nods his head at the others. Clove takes a step back, glancing once more at the chicken.

There are plenty more chickens, but a majority of them will end up dead. Once they’re dead, they ship them off to the butchery in the Square, where they will later be plucked of feathers and gutted for food. A sick way to feed the people in Two, but one of the most convenient.

Clove crosses her arms and watches the next person walk up to the trainer. Once again, the room falls silent and the boy gets handed a chicken. It takes him a minute before the neck gets twisted, then the animal is tossed aside. The class claps, including the trainer, before the boy walks back to his spot. 

“Who’s next?” the trainer says, glancing around the crowd. His finger lands on a tall blond. 

Every head turns to face the boy as he takes a step forward. Clove recognizes him immediately as Cato Rauls, one of the only boys in the academy that has a chance of actually winning the games. She’s seen what he can do with a sword - demolishing the dummies and even sometimes, throwing it across the room like a spear. He’s deadly, that’s for sure. Smart? Maybe. Clove doesn't know that, but she could assume as much so.

Cato looks at the trainer as he pulls a chicken out from its cage and holds it up. The trainer glances between the chicken and Cato before speaking, “You gonna take it?”

“No.” 

Clove tilts her head and Cato remains still. The trainer raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” 

“I said no. I’m not going to kill it.” Cato crosses his arms. 

“And why is that?” 

“Miss Rivers said so herself, it’s done nothing to make me want to kill it.” 

Clove feels her cheeks heat up, and not because she’s flattered, but because now  _ everyone _ is staring at her. Including the trainer, who’s gaze grows harsher as the seconds pass. 

No one moves for a moment, then the trainer snaps the neck of the chicken quickly, tossing it aside with the others before putting a finger in Cato’s face. “Following in the footsteps of a failure, will only cause you the same outcome.” 

The only thing Cato does is shrug and return to his spot in line. When the next person is called, Clove glances down in Cato’s direction - freezing when she spots his eyes already on her. He gives her a slight nod, then looks back at the trainer who claps when the next trainee murders, yet another, chicken. 

Last month, Clove wasn’t grouped with Cato. She was put with the seven and eights: a group of kids who are good enough to make it far in the games but never win. During her time in the ranking, not a single mentor, who is also a victor of a previous game, visited during their training hours. In a sense, she found it humiliating, but she was also fifteen. And at fifteen, you are not prepared for The Hunger Games. Or at least she wasn’t. 

Cato, however, has  _ always _ been prepared for the games. At least that’s what the rumors around the school say. The way teachers coo at the sound of his name. The way girls whisper during lunch when he walks around with his rowdy friends. When Cato was 14, he already had more muscle mass than some of the trainers did. Clove only knew that because she had heard one of them say it before when they thought no one was listening. 

So, it only made Clove more confused that he, out of all people, decided to raise a glass of defiance to a trainer. An act like that could result in a downgrade of your ranking, which is something that Cato could not afford this close to the Games.

The way it works is quite simple. When a tribute goes to the Capitol for the Games, they have one day where a private training session occurs. During the private sessions, the Gamemakers observe as the tribute shows off their skills for at least fifteen minutes - or until they call time. Later that night, they receive a score between the numbers one and twelve. Twelve, of course, being the highest. Although, all her life, Clove has never seen anyone get higher than an eleven. 

That same scoring technique is applied at the academy in District Two as well to prepare the trainees for the big show - knowing what kind of score they could receive if they get selected. It’s a reliable way to make sure that everyone is training with a similar skill level and to help mentors that come in and observe two days before the reaping as well. As the trainers put it, the mentors don't get their time wasted when they’re surrounded by students who know what they’re doing.

When Clove was still in the seven and eight rankings, she would see a few of the girls half-ass weapons while a couple of boys stuck to the weights and survival skills. Some of them, if not most of them, have hopes of becoming something else and if they’re lucky, they will. But, for most people in District Two, a job here is all they’ll end up getting. Which is why it annoys Clove so much. Even if she didn’t want to enter the games, the skills you learn from training - the discipline - all those things matter. 

For as long as Clove can remember, her only goal in life was to be good enough. Whether it was school or training, the biggest competition for herself, was herself. If it wasn’t her parents yelling to do better, it was her own mouth. Spending hours upon hours in her backyard throwing a set of tiny, cheap knives into the bark of a tree - the blades becoming duller the more she threw them. At one point she even tested the blade against her own thigh, but not even a sliver of skin was punctured. The only reason the knives even stuck in the tree anymore, was because Clove’s aim was always so precise that they’d get lodged into the same holes.

She started throwing at the age of seven, but it wasn’t until Clove turned twelve that she was brought into the training program after school. Almost every kid in the district enters at that age unless they have some sort of disability. It’s probably the only fair thing about the system, protecting those who are deemed “helpless” by the public eye.

District Two’s training academy isn’t necessarily big. At most, it can fit up to two hundred trainees and a few trainers at once. That’s another reason why everyone is separated by ranking since each ranking occurs at different times throughout the day. The nines and tens have the longest training sessions out of all of them; two hours, starting at precisely 12:30 pm, right after lunch. When training ends typically the older kids go home while others return back to school to finish their studies, such as Clove. 

The gym isn’t that luxurious either, to say the least, despite District Two being the favorite amongst the Capitol. Some of the brick walls are starting to fall apart and there’s even a couple of cracks near the locker rooms due to years of water damage. The cement flooring is weathered down in the areas where trainees have stood for decades, perfectly molded for a pair of shoes. It’s especially common near any of the throwing stations where many of the weapons are old and only replaced every few years. They say it’s to keep the element of surprise when the tributes arrive in the Capitol to use their quality metal weapons. Clove finds it more of an annoyance since some of the knives are almost as dull as her set back at home. 

Nevertheless, it’s good enough - at least for Clove.

“Eventually,” a quiet, yet deep voice says behind her, “you’re going to have to kill the chicken.”

Clove looks slightly over her shoulder at Cato and raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” 

“If you want to stay in this ranking, yes.” 

“And what if I never do, huh?” 

Cato let out a soft, pathetic chuckle. “How old are you again?” 

“Sixteen.” 

“If you don't kill a chicken within the next two years, you can kiss any chance of the Games goodbye.” Cato raises his eyebrows. “A sixteen-year-old with the nines and tens is impressive to any mentor. But that won’t matter if you’re demoted by the time they come in here to find a possible candidate for the-” 

“I am very much aware of how it works.” 

“So you’re going to kill a chicken?” 

“What if I kill you first?” Clove snaps. A wicked smirk grows on Cato’s lips and Clove rolls her eyes. “If you’re so worried about me not killing a chicken then why didn’t _you_ , huh?” 

“I’ve killed plenty of chickens before this.” Cato takes a step forward, lowering himself down to the eye-level of the girl in front of him. “I just liked your enthusiasm.”

Clove scrunches up her nose. “Are you trying to flirt with me?”

“Mr. Rauls. Miss Rivers. If you’re not going to participate today, then I would appreciate it if you at least paid attention.” interrupted the trainer, voice full of annoyance.

Cato stares at Clove a moment longer before standing up normally, looking at the trainer. “Sorry, sir.”

Clove looks up at Cato and waits until he looks back down at her to speak, “The only chicken I’ll ever kill, will be the one in the arena, chasing me with a weapon they only just learned how to use.” 

“So you will,” Cato sighs. “So you will.”

Then, he brushes by her back towards his friends, not giving her a chance to fire back. Even though Clove knows it’s pointless to argue with him because she knows he’s right. Will she admit that? Absolutely not. But, he’s right… she has to kill a chicken eventually.

Clove watches Cato and his friends go back to their weapons after the trainer dismisses everyone. He’s twice the size of her in both body weight and height. A small part of her is almost thankful she’ll never have to set foot into an arena with him. There is no doubt he’ll be the finalist of this year’s Games if he enters. Better yet, the  _ victor. _

It also helps that Cato, unlike many of the boys in Two, is a fairly attractive face to look at. Most of the boys have dark hair and eyes, but Cato stands out amongst them all with his blond hair and striking blue eyes. If it’s not his brutal strength people whisper about, it’s his looks. Some think he was born in District One, but his family name is far too normal. Either way, the sponsors and the Capitol will undoubtedly make him more of a Poster Boy than he already is. 

Out of everyone in this gym, he’s the only one she would consider actual competition. He knows more weapons than anyone and he’s the only one who's ever actually beat a trainer in a hand-to-hand fight. She remembers watching him stand over the man's bloody face with fists clenched so tight, his knuckles were white. It was the first day she joined his ranking and the first-day Clove decided to stay out of his way.

The only reason why Clove doesn't consider anyone else a strong competition is because Clove knows she’s more than capable of handling herself. You wouldn’t think so at first glance - Clove is small compared to most. Well… compared to everyone. 

Most girls are at least a foot taller and are far more filled out than she is at age sixteen. It’s her greatest weakness, but also her greatest strength. She’s quicker than everyone else and is able to put herself in a winning situation because of it. Climbing trees, hiding in smaller areas - the list could go on. She also trains in more than just knives - sometimes she finds herself with an ax or a sickle. Before she was ranked up, she would train with a bow and arrow as well. Although she’s not incredibly talented with all of them, at least if she were to be in the Games and the arena didn't have knives, she wouldn't be shorthanded.

Clove is just about to venture towards the knives when the trainer approaches her, a grim expression on his face. She stares at him for a moment, waiting for him to say something and when he doesn’t she raises her eyebrows, “Can I help you?” 

“Starting tomorrow, you will be put back in the seven and eights.”

“What?” 

“You were ranked up because of your talent with knives, but talent means nothing with a bad attitude. You lack discipline. I don’t want to train children, Miss Rivers.” the trainer purses his lips and glances towards the others before crossing his arms. “You have the rest of the day here, but I will inform the trainers that you will be switched come tomorrow.” 

“Sir,” Clove sucks in a breath of air, “please don't switch me.”

“You refused to do what I asked and then got Cato Rauls, one of our best students, to do the same. That kind of energy is not-”

“I am not Cato. He made his own choice. If I somehow persuaded-” 

“Miss Rivers,” the trainer snaps, holding a hand up to silence her, “this is not up for discussion.”

Clove presses her mouth in a tight line for a moment. “I deserve to be here.”

“You’ll deserve it when you clean up your act. Until then, this is farewell.” the trainer nods at her before walking towards a group of boys.

“Wait!” Clove yells, quickly following after him. “Please, please, just hear me out.” 

“Clove,” the trainer says slowly, turning to face her once more. His forehead creased with frustration. “For the last time, you’re going-”

“I wasn’t going to say that.” 

“Then what is it?” 

“I was just going to say, you’re going to regret it.” 

“Regret what, exactly?” the trainer raises his eyebrows. 

“Regret demoting me. Especially when I come home a newfound Victor.” Clove lifts her chin up slightly. 

The man lets out a small chuckle. “Maybe so, Miss Rivers. Maybe someday, when you’ve won the Games, I’ll regret it,” he says, then crosses his arms. “Let’s just hope there aren't any chickens in that arena. Wouldn’t want you getting cold feet”

She stays quiet while he stands there, waiting for her to rebuttal. But she won't give him the satisfaction of her quick lip. Eventually, the man gives her a cold look then wanders back to where he was going and Clove counts how many steps he takes to get there. 

In total, the steps add up to only a few feet.

If she wanted to prove her point, she could kill him clear across the room. One quick flick of her wrist to strike the only chicken in the room - a man with nothing but a position and a small badge to keep him safe. There’s only joy in killing the chicken when it’s done something wrong and there’s a deep satisfaction Clove craves in watching a man struggle to survive in the hands of a brand new eight.

But killing the chicken now won’t bring her a crown. So Clove turns quick on her heel, walking straight to the knives, and focuses on the only thing she knows she can do: win.


	2. waiting game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's been two years since clove was demoted and cato is now a victor on the search for a tribute for the 74th Hunger Games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd just like to say a MASSIVE thank you to my dearest friend lexie for proof reading the absolute SHIT out of this chapter for me. she quite literally saved my life and helped me out beyond belief. so, lexie if youre reading this, i love you so much. 
> 
> next, as the chapter summary states this is a time jump. clove is now eighteen and cato is now a victor at age 20. the story explains more, but just so y'all aint confused... hehe. 
> 
> anyways, the response on this story is so crazy and i appreciate your comments and kudos more than words can express. i havent written THG clato in years, so im glad theres still people out there that love to read it as much as i missed and love writing it. 
> 
> as always, if you enjoyed this at all lemme know!!! bc it means a lot to see y’all enjoy something i write and it gives me motivation to keep updating. if you wanna get in touch with me at all you can find me on twitter and instagram with the username @sithclove. 
> 
> thanks for reading and may the odds be ever in your favor. 
> 
> playlist link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/48t9bt1mSJB5WBmdtrlzVw?si=mIvppenFSUKqt-w-gwsSCA

The knife soars through the air before it gets lodged into the heart of a target's outline with a loud _thunk_ that echoes through the gym. 

Clove gives herself a mental pat on the back. It’s the eighth bullseye in a row. 

“Do you ever miss?” an instructor says next to her, eyes trained on the target.

Clove shakes her head, grabbing another weapon off the rack. “Never.” 

She takes a deep breath before repositioning herself on the white line. With her eyes back on the target, she raises her arm to throw when a whistle stops her. She shoots a glance over at the instructor who motions his head towards the sound. Clove sighs and lowers her arm.

“Might as well see what’s going on,” says the instructor before walking away. 

Clove sets the knife back on the rack and wipes her sweaty palms against her tight pants, wincing slightly at the fabric rubbing against the callused skin. There’s an itch at the back of her head that wishes she trained with gloves, but that’s no use when the arena won’t give her the luxury. It’s better to deal with the uncomfortableness than to cave in. 

There is another whistle, and then, Clove can hear the whispers in the gym amplify. She glances around before her eyes land on a man dressed in a very official-looking uniform. It isn’t anything like a Peacekeeper uniform, but it might as well have been one. He has a helmet with the Capitol logo stamped on the forehead, but instead of the traditional white outfit, he is in a sleek, black one. He even has metal shoulder pads. It isn’t until the doors to the gym swing open, and three more officers walk in, that she knows _exactly_ what they are there for. 

They’re Victor escorts. 

Clove can feel her breathing quicken. A _Victor_ is coming into their training session. 

She quickly yanks her ponytail out and combs her fingers through before putting it up in a neater updo. Then, she adjusts her shirt and re-ties her boots. When her head lifts back towards the scene, she freezes. 

Cato Rauls. 

“Fuck,” Clove whispers to herself, looking away from him.

Slowly, each of the men in uniforms disperse around the gym as Cato assesses his surroundings. Clove wants to sink into the concrete below her. It’s beyond _humiliating_ to still be in this category of rankings, but ever since she was demoted years back, she’s made no real effort to return to her previous standing. If she’s going to win the games, it is going to be because she volunteered.

Heavy boots begin their way around the gym and whispers go back to silence. Clove takes this as a cue to find a way to be unseen, but knives will only draw attention to herself. So, she quickly makes her way to the punching bags where, hopefully, she can keep herself hidden from anyone's gaze. More specifically, Cato's. 

Clove adjusts the height of the bag to her liking then cracks her knuckles before landing a fist onto the target. Eventually, she picks up a rhythm and soon, she’s so entirely focused on the sound of her fists making contact that she doesn't even notice the man standing behind her until he places his hands on her hips. 

Immediately, Clove shoves an elbow into the figure's stomach then turns around with her fists in defense mode. There’s a quick moment before Clove realizes the head of hair that’s hunched over, groaning in slight pain, is Cato. 

“Ouch,” he growls standing up normally again. 

Clove feels the anger only bubble up more. “You can’t just put your hands on someone.” 

“You have a bad stance. I was only trying to help.” 

“Well, help elsewhere,” Clove spits, facing the bag again. The heat creeping up her cheeks gets worse when he walks up closer behind her. 

She lets him put his hands on her this time.

“Use these when you swing. You’ll have an easier time and won’t tire yourself out as quickly,” Cato says, breath hot against her neck. 

When he moves his hands, Clove can still feel the warmth they had under her shirt. She glances over her shoulder slightly before taking a deep breath. Her hips move this time as she punches the bag. Cato walks up next to her with his arms crossed and watches, which only makes Clove more anxious. 

She hates the effect he has on her. The way a _Victor's_ effect can have on her. 

“You’re still with the seven and eights,” Cato says after a few moments of silence. “Why is that?” 

“Why are you here?” Clove responds, dropping her arms at her side. It is meant to be a question, but she’s entirely too annoyed to be pleasant. 

“Why else?” Cato raises his eyebrows. “To see if any of you qualify for the Games.” 

Clove almost laughs. Her forehead creasing with frustration “Bullshit. Victors do not come to this ranking unless they are bribed.” 

“I’m being serious, Clove.” 

She scrunches up her nose. “That’s your loss then. I doubt anyone here has the talent to win.” 

Cato stays quiet for a moment. “You really believe that?” 

“Yes.” 

“Even about yourself?” 

Clove looks at him. “I don’t need a _Victor_ to tell me that I deserve to be in the Games. I know I do well all on my own. Which is why, when the time comes, I’ll volunteer myself.” 

“So,” Cato says, stepping closer to her. He doesn't have to squat down to meet her eye-level anymore since she’s grown a few inches from the last time they talked, but he still has to tilt his head down slightly. Cato’s eyes scan her face. “Someone here has the talent.” 

“Fuck off,” Clove spits, looking back at the bag. “You think I’m going to kiss the ground you walk on simply because you're a Victor - well, I’m not.”

“I see you still haven't learned that discipline.”

“You’ve done nothing to deserve my respect.” 

“I won the Games,” Cato growls, getting in her face now. “That’s a lot more than you can say for yourself.”

Clove pushes him back with one hand and snarls slightly. She’s about to make a comeback when an officer approaches them.

“Is everything okay here?” The man in uniform asks. 

Cato stands up straighter, unphased from the push, and nods. “Everything is fine.”

The officer nods then looks at Clove, who shoots him a sarcastic grin. When he turns around, Clove faces Cato again and puts a finger in his face. “I’m not going to ask you again. Leave me alone.” 

Cato grits his teeth. “Someday, you’re going to thank me.” 

“I could never be bothered to show you any sort of gratification.” 

Cato glances at the punching bag then backs up slowly. “Your words are exactly like the knives you throw. They hold a valuable use, but once you throw them around, it’s only chaos.”

Clove stays quiet.

“If you want to win, Clove, you’re going to need more than just your talent,” he says, before turning his back to her. 

If he hadn't been a Victor, Clove would have shoved a foot down his throat. Instead, she watches his blond hair walk back over to the officers then takes one last glance at her before leaving the gym. 

Clove grinds her teeth and clenches her fists tightly then slams one into the bag so hard, pain shoots up from the knuckles. She ignores it and plants another, then another, and another wild, messy punch into the hard fabric. 

She imagines the blue-eyed boy’s face on the bag.

Relentless, she uses all her energy to attack, but it only makes her angrier to know that punching a bag isn’t doing her much justice. It is only making her arm hurt. She stops and hunches over, hands on her knees, gasping for breath. Her eyes sting, but she refuses to let her self pity show. 

_Why are you so angry_ , Clove thinks to herself. _Calm down._

Cato means nothing to Clove, but for the Games, he means _everything_. If she were to volunteer, there is no doubt that he would be one of the mentors. He would be the one that would make sure she is sponsored, that she is presented in a well-mannered way. He would be the one coaching her - giving her life-saving advice. 

As much as she loathes him and his Golden Boy personality, she knows he would be her last hope in the arena if all else fails.

Cato won the 72nd Hunger Games. It had come down to him and a boy from District Four, whom Clove remembers spent a lot of his time alone hiding in the waters. The arena that year was a swamp. There wasn't a whole lot of ground to cover, most of it moss-covered rock if a tribute found a good place for camp. 

When the boy from Four made the mistake of slipping into the water, Cato heard it from a few feet away and took action. It was not long before the boy’s neck was snapped with ease after minutes of combat. The canon had sent ripples through the water as Cato yelled in triumph. 

Back at home, the District went wild. There were parties in the streets, the school was canceled for a few days to celebrate, the Capitol sent gifts, and the Mayor gave a long speech thanking Cato for his success. Clove didn’t bother attending any parties or even the speech; she was too wrapped up in her pathetic grudge against Cato to care. That didn’t mean she wasn’t happy he won - which she was since any victory for District Two is always good - it was just frustrating to see him get something she wants so bad.

Especially after being demoted back to the seven and eights that year.

And even now, two years later, here she is; stuck at the same ranking with the same attitude and the same instructors complimenting her _every_ time she hits a target. Nothing about this is _fun_ , but she wishes it was. Maybe if the others around her wanted to spar or enthusiastically gawked at her abilities, it would be fun. To have that sort of superiority over them. To know that others believe, or at least recognize, she is a deadly force to be reckoned with.

Most of them pay no attention to her simply because they don’t care. Of course, there are a select few who do and train well enough to have trainers notice them. There is a boy, Atticus, that got promoted to the nine and ten's last month, who’s ruthless with a sword. He’s a year younger than Clove and not nearly as big as some of the other boys, but big enough to put up a good fight. Unlike most in the gym, he would for sure be a plausible candidate for the Games. 

If Cato is smart, he’ll choose him. 

“You okay?” a voice says. 

Clove turns to look at the instructor and nods. “Fine.”

The instructor doesn't budge. “Your knuckles are bleeding. You should get them washed up and wrap them. Best you take a break.” 

“I said I’m fine,” Clove states coldly, wiping sweat off her forehead.

“Miss Rivers-”

“I said I’m fine!” Clove yells, raising her hands in annoyance. “And why didn’t any of you bother to tell us a _Victor_ was coming in today? Imagine how much better this situation would be if we had known.” 

“That’s not a question to ask me,” the instructor replies, his voice tinted with nervousness. 

Clove pities the poor man. In a loose battle, she could kill him easily. Why District Two, of all places, would hire such _weak_ and cowardly trainers, is beyond her. She pulls her hair out of the tie it’s in and sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry.” 

The instructor nods. “It’s fine, Miss Rivers. Just clean up those hands.” 

She watches him walk a few steps before quickly asking, “Who can I ask?” 

The man turns to face her with a quizzical look. 

Clove shakes her head slightly. “I mean, is there someone who can tell me _why_ Mr. Rauls came?” For a moment, the man looks at her as if she’s crazy. As if the answer is lying right in front of her. It only infuriates her more, and finally, she spits out, “Are you going to answer me?!” 

The man chuckles slightly. “Well, Miss Rivers, isn’t it obvious?” He gestures towards the knives, the punching bag, and then his hand settles on her. “He came for you.”


	3. curbstomp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the reaping day is here and clove will stop at nothing to get her spot on the stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, welllllll, wellllllll…. It’s been a while since I have updated but I have honestly been so frazzled brain wise that my motivation literally tanked. However, the third chapter is here and after many long days of telling myself to write, it’s finished and I hope you all enjoy it. 
> 
> Side note,,,,, this is not edited well. I just wanted it uP ASDKJFKLSDJF. 
> 
> The chapter title is based off the song “Curbstomp” by Meg Myers. Hehe.
> 
> I dont really have much else to say other than you so much for reading and being so patient with me. I am doing the best I can with updating, although I am slow. By the way,,,, the tag that says slow burn? That’s the truth. Namaste.
> 
> Playlist Link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/48t9bt1mSJB5WBmdtrlzVw?si=mIvppenFSUKqt-w-gwsSCA

Aside from holidays and the Victory Tour, the Reaping is one of the most celebrated days in District Two.

Unlike other citizens in Panem, the people of District Two prepare for the Reaping weeks in advance. Some families prepare meals for breakfast, while others set up banners and lights on their houses. Neighbors get together to throw parties the night before - hosting large feasts and betting events. The entire district is flooded with life leading up to the big day.

Last year, Clove and her parents had gone to a dinner hosted by their neighbors. Delicious breads, cakes, and rare meats were served. It’s a night many people take for granted because most nights, people scrape by with what they have. Clove has always believed that saving the food they are gifted is a better way to celebrate than to eat it all in one night. But, who is she to judge? The food tastes good and the adults are always drunk off Capitol liquor, allowing the youth to sneak off to places they normally couldn't reach.

The celebrations continue throughout the week leading up to the Games as well. Many people crowd the district's Square to watch the live footage on a screen the Capitol sets up. During the chariot rides, people throw flower petals into the air and the Victors - who aren't mentoring - attend the event on a stage, flaunting their hand crafted outfits made of luxurious fabrics imported from the Capitol. When the training scores get announced, many people place bets on how long other tributes will survive - normally putting the lower scores on death's row. During interviews, people who get lucky often get seated in a reserved spot to watch the entire thing live, dressed in their best attire. Otherwise, for the ones who aren’t as lucky, you watch from home.

The only time no one is allowed to be in the Districts Square, is for the bloodbath.

Although District Two conquers most Games, there isn’t any joy in watching young kids die so early. Most spectators enter the square on the third night of the games because that’s when most of the weak are dead and the real fun begins.

Clove remembers years ago, her father had taken her to the Square to get groceries. While they were waiting to enter, she watched a boy from District One and a girl from Two brawl until the boy finally sliced her throat open. She can remember the silence that followed. You could have heard a pin drop, the way everyone froze, unable to look away as the boy wiped his hands clean on her jacket. The sound of a canon echoing through the streets of the district. Her dad had pulled her away from the line, storming home in fury.

Death in the Games is looked at as a failure to the people in District Two. The girl would get a funeral, but no one would want to remember her name.

If both tributes from Two die in the Arena, the district enters a state of grief. Some stores shut down for a few days to pay respect - especially if the owners knew one of the tributes. School is closed for a few days and training is cancelled. People mourn, of course. There’s a funeral for both of them and their families get a small token of gratitude - a small lump sum of cash. A gift other districts, especially the outlining ones, do not receive.

As Clove studies her face in the mirror, she wonders if anyone would bother remembering her name if she died.

Clove scoffs, _probably not._

“Breakfast will be ready soon,” says her father behind her bedroom door. “Then we’re heading out for the Reaping.”

Clove glances towards her door. “I’m not that hungry.”

“You should eat. Might be your last meal at home.”

 _That’s not morbid_ , Clove thinks. _But it also could be true_.

She listens as her father's footsteps get further away from her door then looks back at herself in the mirror. Over the last few years, she’s worn the same dress; a black wrap dress that hung just a bit below her knees. Her mother would let her wear jewelry as well - offering up bold earrings and brightly colored gems - but she always picked out a plain, silver chain. It was dainty enough to complete the outfit.

This year is different since it’s the last year she has the chance of volunteering. Her last year of standing amongst hundreds of others who crave the same taste of victory she does. Instead of the wrap dress, she’s wearing her mother's wedding dress - cut and sewn to hang above the knees. The neckline is low, showing off whatever chest she considers herself to have and the white fabric screams innocence. She can see herself now, standing on the stage in front of a sea of people looking almost angelic.

It’s a perfect disguise for someone with the attitude of a Devil and the grit of a soldier. The others would never know what hit them until their canon fires.

Clove smoothes out the satin material before throwing her hair up in a neat bun. She looks younger with her hair up, but it will be easier to control when in the Square and she won’t have to worry about it flying in her face on the stage. She pulls out a few baby hairs to frame her pointy jaw then adjusts the chain on her neck before sliding on her silver pair of flats.

When she reaches the kitchen, her mother is seated at the table holding a mug, eyes fixed on the paper in front of her. Clove clears her throat to get her attention, and when she does her mother’s eyes grow wide. “My gosh, dear you look stunning.”

“Thanks, ma,” Clove says, glancing at her father who turns to look at her now. “The dress fits perfectly.”

Her mother gushes. “You’ve grown up so much.”

“Yeah,” her father chimes in, “you look great, kid.”

Clove gives them the best smile she can muster up. It’s not every day her parents shower her in compliments, or even act like parents to begin with. She sits down at the dining room table, across from her mother, right as her father sets down a plate full of eggs and bacon.

“I’m really not that hungry,” Clove mumbles. “You know I don’t normally eat breakfast.”

“Today is a big day,” her mother says with a sigh. “You should eat something.”

“Like I said, this could be your last meal at home,” Clove’s father says pointingly.

Her mother slides over a fork and Clove takes it slowly, stabbing the eggs in annoyance. Her nose scrunches up before she puts the meal in her mouth.

“What time is check-in again?” her father asks.

“Nine.” Clove glances at the clock on the wall, which reads seven-thirty, before taking another bite of her breakfast.

“I can’t believe the day has come where my little girl becomes a woman.” her mother puts a hand to her chest and takes a slow breath.

Clove almost chokes on the food in her mouth. The idea of becoming a woman because she wants to volunteer, or because she can finally volunteer, pisses her off in the slightest. She’s worked far too hard for too many years to only now be considered a woman. She pushes the plate away from her and stands up. “I’m going to head out now. Get a head start. It’s going to get busy in the streets and I can't miss check-in.”

“You should fin-”

“I’m not hungry,” Clove snaps, walking to the front door.

The door shuts with a much harsher slam than she intends before she steps out onto the street. It’s windy today, the sky an overcast, but it’s humid and Clove immediately thanks herself for putting her hair up. A sweat already forming on her forehead as she stomps her way to the Square.

Clove does have to admit, the district is much more pleasant the weeks surrounding The Hunger Games. People are more cheery, the banners add color to the concrete buildings, and Peacekeepers are slightly more lenient; allowing people to stay out a little later than normal curfew. It’s the kind of treatment that keeps District Two from acting out against the Capitol.

Her eyes scan the area as she walks. There’s a banner that covers a factory's exterior that reads Happy Hunger Games, painted in black. She can tell it was homemade, the fabric has holes in it after years of being reused and hung in different spots. When Clove turns the corner, finally on the main road of the district, the entire block has banners of past Victors hung up on light posts. She spots Brutus first, his arms are crossed and he’s dressed in a tight, grey turtleneck and slacks with a belt that for sure reaches his belly button. He looks ridiculous and younger than he actually is, but the people in the Capitol probably eat it up.

Then there’s Enobaria. She’s dressed more provocatively than Brutus in a gold gown that shows off every curve on her body and her gold, sharp fangs make a perfect accessory - flashing a sadistic smirk. Unlike Brutus, she looks her age - early thirties - and has less done to her face.

Clove glosses over the next few banners, remembering how each of them won their games.

 _Mace to the face, knife to the throat_ , Clove thinks.

Then, finally, her eyes land on Cato’s banner. His is the last banner before she enters the Square. He has a black button up on with gold embellishments across the sleeves and pants that, thankfully, reach his hips snugly. His blond hair is streaked in gold too, a perfect compliment to his blue eyes - which appear brighter in the photo. Almost as if they were fake.

“I hear he’s the mentor again this year,” a voice says behind her.

Clove turns and looks at the boy, around her age. “Arent the new Victors always the mentors?”

The boy shrugs. “Maybe?” he says, glancing up at the banner. “Either way, I don't doubt there will be a brawl to fight for that tribute spot this year.”

“You think so?” Clove asks, tilting her head.

“With Cato as the mentor-”

“If people are getting in fights because of a mentor, they shouldn’t be going into the Games.” Clove rolls her eyes before continuing her walk.

The boy follows her. “I suppose that’s true.” There’s silence a moment then he jogs to catch up next to her. Clove glances at him before he finally speaks, “Nice dress.”

Clove stays quiet.

“Are you going to volunteer?”

Clove stops and looks at the boy. “I’m not in the mood for morning chit-chat.”

The boy puts his hands up in defense. “Alright. Sorry.”

Clove gives him a curt nod then walks away.

It seems everyone has the same idea she had the further she gets into Square. Families are gathered around doing everything they can to get decent views of the stage. An event like this, to see the Victors, is always a treat for the community. Clove weaves around the crowd until she spots the line to check-in, growing longer by the minute. She quickly hops into a spot and glances around the area.

The Square is much more professionally decorated the day of the Reaping, since Capitol Peacekeepers are ordered to make it look appealing. Concrete buildings are covered in luscious flowers and instead of homemade banners, the ones hung up are made with beautiful dark red cloth that’s etched perfectly to spell out District Two. The stage where tributes will find themselves standing after they either volunteer or get chosen, is covered in a black carpet and there’s a total of fifteen chairs in a row lined up against the beautiful brick Justice building. A chair for each Victor attending the event, the Mayor and the Escort.

The sooner the Reaping is, the more full the area will become. It’s mandatory to attend the reaping in many districts, but in Two you have a choice - even though most people choose to show up. There are camera crews perched on rooftops around the area that will broadcast the Reaping across Panem. Although, the only districts who have the luxury of watching the Reapings in all districts live, are those favored by the Capitol and those with access to TVs. Clove has never bothered to pay any mind to any reaping but Two’s.

Eventually, Clove reaches the front of the line and a woman, dressed in a white jumper, asks for a blood sample. It’s a quick jolt of electricity - which Clove has gotten used to now, considering she’s had far worse done to her - and then the gadget blinks green; approving her for the event.

“Miss Rivers,” the woman says, “good luck.”

Clove nods then follows the others towards her spot.

Unlike previous years, Clove will be in the front row with the girls. It’s already an advantage for her, since volunteers always get noticed in the front before the back. Although, because she is short, her voice will have to serve her some sort of justice.

Clove takes in her surroundings. The girls around her are all dressed fashionably in their best clothes. Some are much more provocative, while others are full of bright intense colors and gems. In a sea of people, those are the ones that stand out most. The ones who will get the most air time when the cameras show off the gleeful faces.

On her left are the boys. The boys have an easier time dressing for the occasion since many people admire them from the sheer fact that their body mass is twice the size of anyone in the Capitol. The cameras won't spend too much time on them unless they're in the front row.

The tributes in the front are also normally the older kids in higher rankings. The ones mentors sought out themselves. The ones who have their names in the glass bowl, rested on top of a beautiful podium made of mahogany wood.

Finally, the clock strikes ten and the doors to the Justice building swing open. Two Peacekeepers step out first, both heavily armed, keeping the door propped open, before the mayor himself steps out. The crowd immediately begins cheering. Hoots and hollers are heard across the district. Clove joins in with a mindless clap, glancing at some of the girls throwing fists into the air. She finds no satisfaction in cheering on a man whose only duty is to enforce rules that many people break anyways. If the man was given a knife, sword, or even a spear - he would be merely helpless.

When the mayor finds his seat, a woman, with light blue powered skin and a wig dazzled in gold, steps out after him. She gives the crowd a warm wave and blows a couple of kisses, before settling in the seat next to the mayor.

 _Great,_ Clove thinks. _The escort this year is another clown-like creature._

Slowly, the cheering subsides and a speaker cracks on before the Horn of Plenty begins to play. Both the escort and the mayor stand up and turn their attention to the Justice Building door. Clove, too, directs her eyes to the door when the Peacekeepers both - in unison - put the guns up to their chest, on high alert. In order from oldest to youngest, each Victor walks out. There's been a total of thirteen Victors over the course of seventy-three Games, but not all of them are alive anymore and some are too old to attend the event. Others seemingly do not want to or live elsewhere now - like the Capitol. Today, only seven of the Victors step out onto the stage. The ones that do not show up or cannot come, will save empty seats. 

Clove can name off every single one, but the ones she cares most for are Enobaria and Brutus. They've been the biggest faces for the district for as long as she can remember. Oftentimes they would visit history classes and help make propaganda for the Games in the Capitol. Caesar Flickerman also has them on his show every now and then to have them spill their lives out to the general public as a way to "keep up with them". It makes good TV, but Clove finds it boring at times.

Not many people can relate to Victors.

When Brutus steps out onto the stage, the crowd erupts with thunderous applause. Clove can almost feel the gravel under her feet shake as people stomp around wildly. When Enobaria comes out next, the cheering grows louder. Clove takes a moment before letting a loud yell escape her lips. For as dressed up as she looks, her boisterous voice takes away from the feminine gaze quickly. She throws a fist into the air and lets another, loud, cheer out before the next Victor steps out. He's younger, but still older than Cato, who will walk out last.

Each Victor is dressed in a unique way, similar to the banners that are decorating the light posts down the main street. Atticus, the boy who won the 68th games, is in a dark blue suit with silver decals that swirl around his arm. His dark black hair is styled back to keep from falling in his face. Clove can hear the girls around her whisper in admiration as he takes his place, waving at the sea of faces.

Clove almost _jumps_ in her spot when the girls next to her begin to scream as if someone was holding a blade to their neck. Anyone smart enough knows why they're reacting that way.

He walks out of the door with confidence, his chin held high. The crowd roars in applause, screaming and chanting his name. Cato has a black suit jacket on and a turtle neck that's black as well, to match. It's nothing special, but he looks good regardless. He always has and he knows he does - the way he carries himself towards his seat, waving at the crowd. The girls next to her slowly stop screaming, but their whispers do not suffice.

Clove adjusts the hem of her dress before brushing a piece of hair that has gotten loose out of her face. She watches the Victors all take their seats at once before the Mayor steps up to the microphone that is adorned in beautiful white roses. He taps the microphone once, silencing the audience, before a screen in front of him - that only he can read - slides up.

Every year, it's always been the same story. The story of how Panem became what it is today. In school, the students are required to learn the entire history themselves. Clove could recite the entire speech herself if she wanted to or _had_ too.

The Mayor starts listing all the disasters that occurred over the years. The droughts, storms, fires, and the wars over the land. All of which lead to what everyone now calls, Panem. Then there's the story of the Capitol - a city full of wealth and power. A city that many citizens in District Two strive to visit or even live in. A place that Clove herself hopes to have a home in someday.

Eventually, the Mayor gets to the Dark Days. An uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve of the thirteen were defeated, but the thirteenth was obliterated. Turned to nothing but ashes and dust. Clove can see the images in the school's textbook that they show as a reminder that attempting to do what they did, will only lead to defeat. Since then, a select few of the districts have tried. Normally it's the outlining districts - the ones who are poor and hardly ever see the grass turn green - that try to attempt something that risky.

It wasn't until the Treaty of Treason - the declaration that brought new laws - was created, that peace started to make a habit of arriving in districts. Those closer to the Capitol such as Districts One, Two and Four started making habits out of turning their children into ruthless killing machines. Training them starting at young ages so by the time they were old enough to be entered into The Hunger Games, their chances of survival and victory were higher. Many districts found this to be an advantage and while it is, said districts always get away with it because their goods are so valuable to the Capitol and because the people are loyal.

The Hunger Games, brought because of the Treaty of Treason, are not seen as a punishment in District Two. They are seen as exactly what they are called: a game.

The rules of the Games are simple; Clove learned them young. Each of the districts must provide one boy and girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen - which is the last year anyone is eligible for the games. Upon being reaped or after volunteering they are called Tributes. All twenty-four of them will be sent to the Capitol, where for a week they will train with others, do interviews and win over the crowd. Eventually, the tributes will be placed into the arena, which could last for a few weeks, until a Victor is crowned.

"Today is both a time for thanks and exuberance." the mayor ends. He meets the eyes of the audience before turning to face the Victors, who all rise from their seats slowly, before facing the crowd again. One-by-one, he reads off a list of the past victors. Thirteen in total. The most recent Victor being Cato Rauls.

With each name read, a hand waves from the stage. It's clear as day the Victors want to be doing something better with their time, despite being showered in attention. Clove's eyes wander around the crowd, not interested in watching the Victors coo at the audience. There's people everywhere; perched on the roofs of buildings, huddled into small groups on the paved road. Some even took it as far to climb lampposts, holding on for dear life as they observe the scene below.

Finally, the Mayor calls his appreciation then gestures towards the escort with blue skin, who gracefully strides across the stage towards the podium. Her gold wig sparkles in the fluorescent lights casting down on the stage as she blows kisses at the crowd. She taps the microphone twice then chuckles. “Oh, what an honor it is to be here in District Two today!”

The crowd gives her a cheerful applause in response. No one here ever takes Capitol people seriously. They're far too lazy and never do anything but suck off the Capitols wealth after doing the bare minimum.

The escort puts a hand on her chest, cueing the crowd back in. "Today is a very special day," she says, then fans herself slightly. "This year, a select few of Victors and Mentors have hand picked some of the most skilled trainees amongst the Academy."

Clove feels her heart rate begin to increase.

"As usual, we start with the ladies," she says in a high pitched voice. Her heels clunk against the carpeted stage as she makes her way to the glass bowl. Clove draws in a breath, prepared to shoot her hand up into the air before the others. She watches the escort dip her hand into the bowl and wave it around before diving in and pulling out a small envelope. Then she crosses back to the microphone and smiles at the crowd before ripping the paper open and pulling out another, smaller piece of paper. In a clear, cheerful voice she says, "Clove Rivers."

 _What?_ Clove thinks. _Did she just call my name?_

Clove is so caught off guard, she hardly hears a girl in the front row throw her hand in the air screaming, "I volunteer as tribute!"

Finally, it clicks. The girl steps forwards and Clove realizes this is her _only_ shot. Her _last_ shot, too.

Clove lunges forwards, grabbing the girl by her tight ponytail and yanks her back. Immediately, the crowd around them backs up and hollering starts.

People love when this happens.

The girl is quick, though. Driving an elbow into Clove's gut before shoving her back.

 _No, no, no,_ Clove thinks.

"Back off," the girl hisses.

Clove drives her fist into the girl's throat quickly, catching her completely off guard. The girl coughs and gags for air, before Clove shoves her aside, making a beeline for the stage. By now, the district is flooded with roars. People both cheering and booing as she places her foot on the first step.

 _I deserve this_ , Clove thinks. She walks up gracefully, chin high.

No one can take this away from her.

As she steps towards the escort, who reaches a hand out for her to take, she feels a certain set of eyes on her. But, then again, _everyones_ eyes are on her.

"Lovely! So lovely!" the escort exclaims. Clove takes her hand gently, then lets her lead her to a spot that has a small white X taped on the ground. "What a fight! I can tell you are more than prepared this year." 

Clove smirks, looking at the crowd of people. Below her the girl, who she embarrassed in front of the entire population of District Two _and_ Panem, is rubbing her neck, fuming up at the stage. Clove gives her a curt wink. 

"I suppose with that all over, we move onto the boys!"

The blue-skinned woman zips her way over to the next bowl and giggles as she sticks her hand in - taunting the crowd for a moment before grabbing a slip of paper. When she reaches the podium again, Clove takes a moment to glance at the Victors. Most of which are focused on the podium, while others observe the boys. Clove looks back at the woman when she says, "Ryker Vos."

Clove knows Ryker. He's strong and built like an ox. He has two younger brothers - twins - who were in her ranking. She spots him in the crowd immediately, lips placed in a small smirk. He takes one step forward and glances over his shoulder at the others - who don't dare raise their hand to volunteer. Ryker is one of the best candidates, everyone knows that. While District Two is known for their volunteers, they also know when to stay quiet. 

_It's a shame_ , Clove thinks. _He will be dead in a little over a week._

Ryker walks onto the stage and waves at the crowd. He even winks at the cameras that sway by his face slowly as he takes the escort's hand. She guides him to his X then places her hands on her chest, looking at the both of them. "Well shake hands!"

Clove sticks her hand out first, looking at Ryker with a hint of a grin. He returns the same expression then shakes her hand firmly.

The escort gives out a hoot then yells, "Ladies and Gentlemen, your Tributes of District Two for the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Clove Rivers and Ryker Vos!"

The crowd erupts with cheers. People throw flowers at the stage. Flags are waved out of windows. Clove soaks up the moment, waving politely at the cameras and the people below her.

It will not be the last time they chant her name.

Clove relishes in the glory until the Mayor walks back up to the microphone, silencing the crowd politely. He begins reading off the Treaty of Treason then everyone places a hand over their heart as the Panem anthem plays. Once it's over, again, the crowd erupts with chants and begins throwing flowers again. The girl that Clove had punched in the throat, has even given up in sulking and joined in on the chaos. She catches her eye though, and it reminds Clove why she's on the stage to begin with.

She was hand picked. Someone wanted her on this stage.

It makes Clove both excited and mad that her name was picked. She had hoped to overthrow someone else’s spot instead of being singled out amongst everyone right away. Now even those from other districts who will watch the reapings on their way to the Capitol, will know that she isn't someone to overlook. That despite her size and height, she’s strong and deadly.

There’s a tiny voice in the back of her head that keeps telling her she already knows who picked her. But she brushes it off and avoids glancing towards the pair of eyes she knows are burning holes into the back of her head.

When the cheering subsides, two Peacekeepers take both Clove and Ryker into custody. They march them through two large doors - the entrance of the Justice Building - and straight into seperate rooms for goodbyes. In other districts, especially those outlining ones, tributes take this time to try and escape. Clove will be taking this time to focus.

In the entire district, this is one of the most expensive places. The other place is the training academy, despite having old weapons. Fabrics that Clove has never felt, but has learned about in school books like velvet, decorate the windows to block the public view. When Clove finds herself sitting on the couch, she feels herself sink into the cushion. It’s comfortable, far more comfortable than the couch back at home. She runs her fingers across the fabric before turning her head towards the door when a Peacekeeper steps in.

Only her mother steps into the room, her cheeks wet with tears. Not out of sadness, but out of excitement. Clove stands for a moment, observing the woman, before her mother pulls her into a hug. It’s a stiff, uncomfortable hug, but Clove soaks it up regardless. Though she plans on coming home, the odds could change.

“I’m proud of you,” her mother says. “Watching you grow has been my greatest joy.” 

Clove pulls back from the hugs and nods once. “We will see each other again.” 

“I hope so.”

“Know so.” Clove glances at the door.

Clove’s mother stays quiet for a moment. Studying her daughters features, ones that are so similar to her aging ones. The bright green eyes, freckles sprinkled across her face, pointy chin. Her dark hair she got from her father. 

Her father. 

“He wanted to come--”

“It’s okay,” Clove says, shaking her head. “He will see me when I return home.” 

Her mother nods. “That he will.”

“Is there anything else you would like to say?” Clove asks, grabbing her mother's hands lightly.

“Yes, actually,” she says. Clove watches her mother pull her hands away, shoving them into the grey cardigan’s pocket she has on. When she pulls them back out a small, silver band is in her hands. “This was mine when I was your age. If I were to be entered into the games, I would have used this as my token. I… would like you to have it.” 

Clove lightly grabs the ring from her mother and slides it on. It’s a big snug, but it’s not suffocating. “Thank you.” 

“It should be allowed. A reminder of home.” 

Clove nods. 

Then, another Peacekeeper is at the door instructing her mother to leave. Clove expects her to oblige easily without saying another word, but instead her mother does the most motherly thing she’s ever done and says, “I love you.”

Clove watches the door shut without another word spoken.

Her mother is the only person to say goodbye. 

When Ryker’s goodbyes finally end, a Peacekeeper steps through the door and motions her to follow. “Miss Rivers, the train is ready for deptature.”

Clove takes a slow, deep breath and glances around her surroundings. She adjusts her dress, fixes her hair, and follows the Peacekeeper

With one last glance back at the Justice Building she thinks, _show time_ , before the sound of cheering cloud her thoughts. 


	4. a little wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "One of these days a comin', I'm gonna take that boy's crown  
> There's a serpent in these still waters, lying deep down  
> To that king I will bow, at least for now  
> One of these days a comin', I'm gonna take that boy's crown"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after months of me putting this off because i hated my dialogue, im finally updating this beast. big time shout-out to sun and amanda for being the two sole reasons why this is even being posted. i love you two more than we need air to breathe. 
> 
> anyways, i wanna make something v clear. i wrote this chapter way back in may and for some reason i was like "yeah lets write past-tense!!!" even tho i f*cking suck at it. so, i really trully apologize if this chapter switches from present to past tense often. i tried editing it as much as i could, but eventually just said screw it all. going forward, i will probably write in the present tense bc its way easier for me to do. 
> 
> okay, well.... i guess that's all i got for you. sorry again for not updating in a while. im prepping another clato (modern) fic for nano wrimo and needed a break from outlining to write something to keep me motivated. hope you all enjoy, muwah. 
> 
> find me on twitter: clatoaf  
> or instagram: clatosmentor
> 
> playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/48t9bt1mSJB5WBmdtrlzVw?si=c7L9NDMhSjSHrGVs1GfAPQ

Clove gnawed on the inside of her cheek while the taste of iron swished around her mouth. She glanced around the train's first chamber, taking in the brightly colored furniture and dark, glossy wood side tables. They had been sitting in silence for over fifteen minutes now. Neither her nor Ryker had said a word since their escort - whose name she learned was Magenta - had told them to make themselves at home. It was both good and bad waiting for their mentors to enter the room, granted it gave Clove plenty of time to think of how she was going to present herself. Would she go for the egotistical and sadistic approach? Or would she go with the smart, well-prepared, career one? Both options had slightly different repercussions, but Clove decided it was best to play it safe and just stay as lucid as possible.

Besides, she had already proven she wasn't someone to overlook after her show at the reaping.

Occasionally, she could feel Ryker’s eyes on her. Maybe he wanted to chat, but Clove didn’t feel like chatting. Magenta hadn’t told them where their rooms were, so they just parked in the first cart and watched as she gorged herself with sweets. Clove was uncomfortable in her dress and itched to try on the Capitol clothing they had provided for her. There was nothing to do other than watch the fields of uncivilized Panem go by out the window. The speed of the train made most of it blurry, which caused Clove to look away every now and then to avoid getting sick.

Finally, when the door to one of the carts slid open, Clove felt her skin leap off as she watched both Cato and Lyme step into the room. Her fingers dug into the cloth of the chair as Cato immediately turned his back to them to whisper something to Magenta as Lyme slowly approached the chairs where she and Ryker were seated. 

“Welcome,” Lyme said, glancing between the two of them, “have you eaten?”

Was this some kind of joke? She was expecting to see Enobaria, not Lyme. Clove stayed silent, then turned to face Ryker. 

“I’m kinda hungry,” he said. 

Lyme nodded. “Help yourself to some food. We will discuss some things over lunch.”

Ryker rose himself up slowly and made his way towards the buffet table. He didn't shy away from filling his plate with all kinds of delights. Clove felt a pair of eyes on her and lifted her chin back up at Lyme, who creased her forehead slightly. 

“You put on quite a show this morning.”

“I wanted the spot.” Clove glanced at the food again. She wondered if it was a good idea to get used to the delicates now so her stomach wouldn’t hurt in the Capitol. Lyme, however, made that decision for her as she sat in the seat Ryker was. 

“Your name was drawn.” Lyme’s eyes scanned her face slowly, “That already told me you were worthy of the spot. I was merely going to tell you that what you did to secure it, throwing that girl to the ground, may have already won you a few sponsors.”

Clove felt the ends of her lips begin to form a small smirk, but she kept the compliment unnoticed.

“So, what’s so special about you, huh?” Lyme leaned back in her seat and crossed a leg over her knee. Her composure reminded Clove of a Peacekeeper. Her shoulders were broad and her face was a bit of a mixture between square and oval, only slightly aged. The blonde she had left was turning grey and it was cut short - almost as short as Rykers. Clove didn't realize how long she had stayed quiet until Lyme snapped in her thumbs in her face. “You gonna answer me?” 

Clove blinked. “I’m good with a knife. I’m decent with an ax or--”

“I know all about your weapons,” Lyme interrupted. “Tell me about you.” 

Clove tilted her head, unsure of how to go about the question. What about her did she want to know? 

“What’s your angle?” Lyme asked, reading her thoughts. “For the games, do you plan on going in a full dogfight, or would you rather put the tail between your legs?” 

“Isn't that obvious?” Clove hinted back the annoyance the question brought her. Not even a few moments ago she was praising her act at the reaping and now she was questioning whether or not she was going to fight or fail. “I plan on going straight into the bloodbath. You don’t win by cowering.” 

“No.” Lyme pressed her lips together. “I suppose you don’t. Not always. The lucky few do.” 

“Luck,” Clove pointed a finger at Lyme, “is my strength.” 

“And why is that?’

Clove let out a small chuckle. “My name is Clove.” 

Lyme looked completely unphased.

“What?” Clove asked, giving her a look.

“I’m not sure I get it.” 

“What don’t you get? Clove... Clover… four-leafed Clover? Good luck.” Clove motioned her hands around in frustration. 

“Clove is a spice.” Lyme smirked.

Clove felt her skin burn.

“But,” Lyme looked towards the boys, “I will take your word for it.” 

Clove huffed then rose to her feet, almost stomping towards the buffet table. She wasn’t hungry, but maybe having something in her mouth would stop people from talking to her.

When she reached for a loaf of bread, tinted bright pink, she noticed the light dim as a shadow towered over her. For a moment, she stood still until an arm reached around her and grabbed a loaf that was tinted green. She stood up straighter, then, and turned to face the figure. 

Cato bit off the end of the bread and raised his eyebrows at her.

“You could have said excuse me,” Clove said, glancing at Ryker who had taken her spot now.

Cato swallowed. “Nice fight, by the way.” 

Clove pursed her lips.

“Not even a thank you?” Cato asked, giving Clove a look of disapproval.

“For what, exactly?”

Cato chuckled then shook his head and strolled away, making himself comfortable on the sofa. Clove stared at him for a moment then turned back to the food. She flooded her plate full of fruit and one of the small cupcakes before finding her seat on the sofa, furthest cushion away from Cato.

“So,” Lyme began, “welcome to the Capitol.” 

“Well, we aren’t there yet,” Cato interjected, taking another bite of the bread. 

Lyme shot him a look. “You’re in the Capitol the second you volunteer or get reaped.”

Cato opened his mouth to speak, but Magenta strolled into the conversation, voice so high pitched it almost gave Clove a headache. “Who wants to watch the reapings? I believe District Three is up!” 

“We can do that.” Lyme nodded, looking at her tributes. 

Clove shoved a strawberry into her mouth and glanced at the woman. She could feel the couch shift slightly as Cato made himself more comfortable then Magenta sat in between the two of them, crossing her legs like a lady before turning on the TV. The Capitol seal appeared for a brief moment before the spokesperson, Caesar Flickerman, introduced the Mayor of three as he walked onto the stage. 

District Three isn’t much larger compared to District Two, Clove noticed - at least their Justice Building wasn't. She couldn't see the rest of the District. The people weren’t as dressed up like the people in two, either. Unlike Clove and Ryker, who looked clean and nourished, the kids had scrappy old clothes. Some even appeared to have holes in their sleeves.

Magenta commented on it, but Clove remained silent. She knew that other districts were not as lucky as her district was. Besides, if she were to judge them based on looks alone, there would be far fewer Victors in two. Each tribute always has something up their sleeve. What might be up there could be secret forever, other times it appears in the arena.

When the mayor started his speech the crowd fell silent. His speech was similar to the one they tell in District Two, but then again, everyone's probably is. It’s not like the history changes in each district, just the way people tell it.

Finally, when it was over, the escort made her way to the microphone. The girl’s name was Nova and the boy's name was Zero. Both of them were young, the girl looking only thirteen. Unlike District Two, the crowd did not cheer. Instead, they stared blankly at the scene as if it was the worst possible situation. Clove pursed her lips, it probably is the worst situation for them.

“They won’t be much of a problem,” Lyme said. 

Ryker chuckled. “District Three never really is.”

“They’re smart.” Clove spat out. “The tributes from three are always smart. They may not have the ability to kill us with weapons, but they have brains.” 

“The only brains I’m getting out of District Three are the ones that will end up on the end of my sword after I kill them.” Ryker hissed, shoving another bite of food into his mouth. 

Clove decided it was best to not retaliate for her district partners' lack of awareness. A little part of her hoped that his death would be on the hands of one of the tributes from three. A small smirk spread across her face slowly as she thought about it. When she glanced at Ryker again, she noticed Cato staring at her. He gave her a slight tilt of the head then turned back to face the TV.

The reapings are scattered throughout the day but by District Ten, Clove was tired and ready for a nap. Magenta still had not shown them where their rooms were located and she was far too engaged in the way the girl from ten’s outfit looked to be interrupted. Besides, Clove wasn't even too sure she knew where they were sleeping, to begin with. So, she rose slowly and made her way back to the buffet table where an Avox took her plate. Clove nodded thanks and turned back to the scene, Cato approaching her slowly.

“Everyone after seven is normally useless. I stopped watching around there,” Cato said, voice hushed. 

Clove remained quiet.

“I heard you and Lyme talking earlier.” 

“You enjoy eavesdropping?” Clove raised an eyebrow and Cato rolled his eyes.

“This train is small. Things echo off the walls.” Cato motioned with his head for her to follow then began walking towards the door of the cart.

Clove took a glance at the others then followed him. They stepped through the door into another compartment that had a window almost the size of her room back at home. She would have gawked if Cato hadn’t been there to ruin the moment. 

“I wanted to talk to you privately.” Cato sat at one of the bar stools and gestured to her to sit next to him.

Clove did not sit. She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.

“Okay then,” Cato sighed. He reached over the bar and grabbed a glass under the counter then slid over the crystal pitcher filled with a brown liquid. Cato poured just an inch into his glass before swishing it around. “Do you know why you’re here?” 

“Is this a trick question?” 

“Yes.” 

Clove pressed her lips together then hesitantly found the stool next to him. She pretended not to notice Cato’s smirk. 

He took a small sip of his drink, eyes trained on the mirror in front of them that backsplashes the bar. He could see the girl glancing around the room, eyes glazed in awe. “So, do you?” 

“Because I stopped the girl.” Clove answered. 

“No.” 

“Well, if I hadn’t I would be here.” 

“That’s true, I suppose.” Cato glanced at her. 

“And if someone else had gotten drawn then I probably would have just volunteered regardless.” Clove paused and turned to face him slowly, face scrunched in annoyance, “Then again, that raises the question of why my name was drawn in the first place. My first answer to that question is quite simple: You.”

“Me?” Cato urged. He took another sip then pushed his empty glass to the side. “What about me, Clove?” 

“You picked me.” 

“Yes, I did.” 

“Why?” Clove seethed, feeling her fists ball at her sides.

Cato looked forward again. “Why not?” 

Clove slammed her hands onto the bar and raised her voice, “I did not need anyone's help to get into the Games!”

“I never said you did.” 

Clove shot him a look, “Then why did you deem it was so necessary for you to single me out amongst everyone in the district -- no, not just the district, across the entirety of Panem?”

“Your name being drawn proved to people that you deserved to be on the stage.”

“I didn't need your help to prove that!” 

“No, I guess not, but--” 

“I cannot believe you,” Clove snapped, hopping off her stool and began pacing around the room, hands in fists. “You made me an obvious target. Imagine how much better it would have been if people didn't expect what I had under my sleeve.”

Cato was frustrated, Clove could tell. He rubbed his jaw and exhaled slowly. “Do you want my honest opinion on why I chose you, Clove?”

She crossed her arms and nodded once. 

Cato studied her face a moment before speaking, “You’re short. Very tiny compared to most careers we’ve had in the past. You look like you’re about fifteen and you were in a rank that was deemed as a disappointment. No one would have taken you seriously even if you did volunteer. They would have just been annoyed at the fact that you took someone else's - someone who seemed more worthy - spot. Does that make any sense to you?”

Clove clenched her jaw and tilted her chin slightly to the side so Cato was staring at the side of her face.

“I did you a favor,” Cato said before rising to his feet. 

“A favor?” Clove’s voice dripped with venom. “You still singled me out. You put a target on my back. You made people realize that I do, in fact, have a trick up my sleeve. Something that makes me a career. I didn't ask for that. I did not want that. I wanted to be a surprise. I wanted people to underestimate me so I could prove them - all of Panem and District Two - wrong.” 

Cato pressed his lips in a tight line, collecting his anger before responding. “I understand that you do not see this as a positive, but in the long run, it could benefit you. No one knows I am the one who picked your name. It could have been Brutus, Enobaria -- hell it could have even been Lyme. So could you please, for the sake of being a good little tribute, take this with a grain of salt and let me do what I need to do to keep you alive inside that arena?” 

Clove stayed quiet and turned away from him. 

“I am going to need an answer from you,” Cato said. “I know you don’t think you need my help, but you haven't done this before, I have. I know what it takes to be liked by people. Being a career, fighting someone for a spot here, those things might matter to you, but you need a lot more than arrogance and determination to woe the crowd, Clove.”

She stayed silent for a few more moments. Cato could tell she was taking in the words he said carefully. When she met his eyes, her green ones were filled with anger. “Fine.”

Cato nodded. 

She glanced at his drink and had just turned on her heel to leave the room when the door to the cart opened. Ryker stepped through with urgency in his voice, “I think you guys should come to see this.” 

Clove glanced at Cato, took a deep breath, and followed Ryker out the door. She could hear Cato’s heavy footsteps behind her as the door slid open, the three of them walking back over to their previous seating arrangement.

“Finally, you’re here,” Lyme said. “Sit down. We want to show you something.” 

“Quite the turn of events if you ask me!” Magenta clapped her hands together, filled with joy until Lyme shot her a look. 

“What happened?” Cato asked, sitting on the couch with Clove.

“There was a volunteer in District Twelve.” Lyme pressed play on the TV.

“Really?” Clove looked at Lyme in surprise. Lyme just gave her a nod in response. No one in twelve wants to go into the games and Clove couldn't even remember the last time they had a volunteer. Have they ever actually had one? Clove wondered. Maybe. 

The escort for twelve was dressed similarly to Magenta, but instead of the blue, she was covered head to toe in pink. She gracefully crossed the stage to pull out a name. When a girl named Primrose Everdeen was called, there was a brief moment of confusion and then, a small, blonde-haired child who looked to be the age of twelve, began her way towards the stage. 

Magenta pointed to the screen, “Here it comes!”

A girl's voice called out and Prim halted in her tracks. A blue dress ran up behind her, pushing the child behind her with one arm. “I volunteer!” the girl gasped, then swallowed hard. “I volunteer as tribute!”

“Sister?” Cato asked, looking at the others. Lyme waved him off.

More confusion followed after that. The escort wanted to make sure the volunteer process was done right, but the mayor brushed it off and called her (the volunteer) to the stage. It wasn’t until the girl began her way to the stage that Prim began to lash out. 

Clove could feel a slight pity grow as she watched a tall, dark-haired frame drag the screaming child away. It’s not easy for other districts to enjoy the Games as much as other districts do. More specifically, District Two. 

“At least that’s one less child we have to kill.” Ryker chuckled. 

Clove turned to face him and gave him a sour look. “That’s not funny.” 

“No?” Ryker asked, raising his eyebrows. “I think it’s hilarious. If you’re so afraid for the games, maybe you should do something like… train or simply not get picked.” 

“You act as if this girl wanted to get picked or even had the option to not get picked. This isn't District Two.”

“She volunteered. That was her choice.”

Clove raised her voice. “To protect someone she loves. That’s not--” 

“Enough,” Lyme snapped.

Clove let out a slight groan then looked back at the TV. She had missed the girl's name, but now a boy named Peeta Mellark was getting called onto the stage and he looked more frightened than the girl did. When the two shook hands, Clove sensed some odd connection between the two of them. _Probably went to school together_ , Clove thought. 

“Is that it?” Cato asked, looking at Lyme.

Lyme nodded. “That’s it.” 

“We should watch our reaping,” said Magenta. “We can go over what the others saw?” 

“That works. Can you pull it up?” Lyme held out the remote for Magenta to grab, but the blue woman stepped back. “Is that a no?” 

“I’d have to go get the footage.” 

“Well, go on then.” 

Lyme, Clove determined, was not as friendly as the school’s textbooks described her. Even Cato was more approachable and he was on her shitlist. Maybe it was the way she treated everyone with some sort of authority. Like she was a commanding officer in charge. And maybe, to some degree, she was. Or at least wanted to be. 

Either way, she didn’t like the way she felt around her. It wasn’t intimidation, Clove wasn’t intimidated by much. It was more like a gut feeling that if it came down to either Ryker or Clove as the last two, Lyme would choose Ryker over her. 

Trust, that was the word Clove was looking for. 

She didn’t trust Lyme.

She didn’t trust Cato, either. But, she trusted him to an extent of knowing that he had more of a brain on his shoulders than he led on. 

Cato, unlike Lyme, was sitting with his legs spread open and head back on the couch. His eyes focused on the ceiling above him. He was casual, relaxed. Didn’t seem stiff. He almost appeared to want to be anywhere but in the cart with everyone, and that was probably true. He probably wished to be engulfed with other beautiful people drinking wine that costs more than Clove’s entire home back in Two. 

Being a mentor, to some victors that came from career districts, was more of a chore than anything. While they always enjoyed relishing in the glory of winning, the process of getting there was a treacherous one. There were several steps mentors had to do to ensure their tribute was presented to the Capitol in a way that out-shone anyone else. The schmoozing skills it took with sponsors who had their eyes locked on another tribute already - Clove had already read all about it. 

In outlining districts, many tributes considered mentors to be devils on their shoulders - persuading them to go against morals they have followed for most of their life. Presenting them clothes either too provocative or too covered. Giving them advice that would have made a mother weep. Most of them, especially those in Districts Nine to Twelve, never knew what was best for their tribute because of their age. Some were in the games so long ago that when a tribute came out looking exactly like an animal on a chariot, all bets were off and they were better off dead in a few days.

Which is why she accepted Cato’s help. Not because she wanted it, but because he was right: She needed it. 

Clove wasn’t stupid. Cato was attractive. She had always believed that. He was the poster boy for District Two and even Panem. His blond hair, blue eyes, skin tan from District Four’s sunshine, and muscles twice the size of some people's skulls, was sexy all the way. Clove can remember the way the girls in training would eat up the photoshoots that got released across the nation and the interviews on Fridays where Caesar would compliment the way his suits always fit so snuggly. 

He knew exactly what it would take to make her appear the same way, even if she hated to admit it. 

Cato adjusted his posture next to her on the couch and cocked his jaw slightly as he crossed an ankle over his knee. Clove watched him fumble with the collar of his turtleneck, his lips pursing in focus as he tried to get the fabric to fold correctly. She could feel eyes watching her so she glanced up at Ryker, who was staring at her, smirking. For what reason, she didn’t know and didn’t want to find out, either.

“Found it!” Magenta’s loud, bubbly voice bounced off the walls of the train as she skipped over in excitement. “I can’t wait to see this.”

“Took you long enough,” Lyme hissed, motioning her hand towards the TV. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

It didn't take long for the Avox, that Magenta had set up the TV, to get the reaping to appear. An abundance of muted colors decorated those in the frame. The eldest of the children being in front meant that Clove could spot her white dress easily. She looked calm and collected. Slightly annoyed, too. 

_Would it kill you to smile_? She thought to herself. 

As the mayor gave his speech, she noticed Magenta mouthing every word in the corner of her eye. Then, finally, Magenta smiled as she watched herself step onto the stage. “Blue was the perfect color, I think,” she quipped.

“You look great,” Ryker said. 

“Thank you, dear.” Magenta blew the boy a kiss then looked back at the TV.

Next to Clove, Cato let out a small huff. If it wasn't already evident he was bored earlier, it certainly was now. 

When it was finally time for Magenta to call out the names, Clove leaned forward. As Magenta called out her name, she could feel goosebumps travel up her arms slowly.

Cato even perked up slightly when Clove grasped the girl's ponytail, pulling her back, but shifted in his seat when the girl drove her elbow in her gut. 

The punch to the girl's throat made everyone in the room collect a breath.

Clove watched her white dress carry itself to the white X on the ground and found herself smirking at the sight of how angelic she appeared in front of everyone. Her long, dark brown hair blowing perfectly in the wind. Freckles kissed by the sun just enough that when the camera did a close up of her face, she looked pretty and, with a glowering opponent in the crowd, dangerous.

“Cameras did you well,” Magenta commented, smiling at Clove. “That’s good.” 

She gave Magenta a slight nod before looking back at the TV. It was time for Ryker to step up onto the stage. Next to Clove, he stood stronger and the camera liked to linger on him longer than it had on Clove. The crowd was louder with their cheers, his hair was blowing just a little more gracefully. 

Clove dug her nails into the couch slowly and watched the two of them shake hands. 

Magenta clapped loudly. “It couldn't have been more perfect. I bet the Capitol is already oozing with excitement to meet you both.”

“Of course they are,” said Lyme. “They’re from Two. They’re careers. They’ll be eaten up regardless, however, we need to work on a few things.” 

“Like what?” asked Ryker. 

“We’ll have to practice smiling a bit more. Engaging with the crowd. Once we see the others during the chariots, we can discuss this further.” 

“Speaking of chariots,” Cato finally interjected, “when we arrive at the Capitol, Lyme and I won’t see you till then. So, behave with the stylists. You’ll be getting bathed and groomed. Some of it is kind of uncomfortable, but you shouldn’t complain or ask questions.” 

Lyme nodded in agreement. 

“Uncomfortable how?” asked Ryker, glancing between the two mentors. 

“You get waxed from head to toe. Scrubbed down with some rough tools. The water might be a bit too warm. You know, basic things.” Lyme smirked slightly. 

Ryker’s eyes slowly trailed over to Clove, who shrugged at him, then back at Lyme, “Sure…”

“You’ll be fine,” added Cato before he rose to his feet. “Anyways, I’ll be in the bar cart. See you at dinner.”

Clove’s eyes watched him until he disappeared behind the doors to the cart where they had their private conversation earlier. Then, she directed her focus to Lyme and Magenta, who were already engaged in conversation. 

“Dinner tonight will be served around eight. Till then, the tribute rooms are located there,” Magenta said, pointing a finger towards another entrance to a separate cart. “You each have your own rooms so help yourself to whatever you find in the dressers or bathrooms. We need your reaping day outfits so, please leave those on top of your bed in the morning when we get to the Capitol. You’ll be having breakfast with your stylist after grooming.” 

Ryker nodded. “Sounds good. Thanks.” 

“Dinner is not required, but we would like you both to make an appearance,” Lyme added.

Both tributes nodded. 

“See you then.” Lyme then rose to her feet and walked in the same direction Cato went. 

Magenta was the third to leave, which left Ryker and Clove alone in the main cart. 

Clove glanced at him before standing up. “You coming with?” 

Ryker shook his head no. “Nah, I might just sit and relax for a moment.” 

Clove sighed, waved a hand at him, then took off in the direction of her room. The corridor to the rooms wasn’t as nice as Clove expected. It was a cold, long hallway with walls made of metal. When she finally reached her door, she had goosebumps sprinkled across her skin. Magenta hadn’t mentioned if she needed a key to get into her room at all so she just pressed the button and waited for it to glide open, but nothing happened. 

“Open,” Clove snapped, kicking the door with the tip of her shoe. Her reflection taunted her and Clove finally noticed how disheveled she looked. Her curled hair was almost straight now and her eyes appeared more tired than she felt. She imagined herself on the stage again, looking poised and studied herself now; she was tired, hungry, and cold. 

Again, she kicked the door and pressed the button. This time, the door opened slowly and she stepped through quickly. She was met with a plush carpet and warmth. _Thank god_ , Clove thought to herself. She contemplated taking a warm shower but went against it since she was to be groomed tomorrow.

Instead, she stripped off her mother's dress - or _her_ dress, now - and slid on a pair of silky, olive green bottoms with a comfortable, heavy black sweater. For the first time since she had stepped onto the train, she was comfortable. 

Her room was nicer than her room at home for obvious reasons, but it was far too gaudy for her liking. The bright colors were a bit sore on the eyes and there was a fragrance of roses that floated through the air gently, but enough to make her nose tickle. At least the fabric was soft on her skin and the bed wasn't made of paper boxes. 

As Clove watched the blurry scenery of Panem go by outside her window, she could hear voices outside her door. It was Ryker and Lyme. 

“I’m sure you are aware by now that Cato is mentoring Clove. This could benefit you. Cato hasn't had a decent tribute in a while, at least not one that didn’t gawk over the color of his eyes,” said Lyme, her voice wasn't hushed enough. Clove tiptoed across the room carefully and pressed her ear against the door. “I would like to have meetings with you every night after dinner to discuss how Clove does in training and how we can work around her skill.” 

There’s silence a moment then Ryker finally spoke, “It was him, wasn't it?”

Clove feels her pulse quicken.

“I’m not sure what you mean?” 

“Clove’s name in the bowl. It was Cato, wasn’t it?” 

It’s as if Clove had traveled back in time when Lyme finally said, “Well, Ryker, isn’t it obvious?” 

She stepped away from the door after that and seated herself back on the bed, staring at herself in the cold metal door as she heard Ryker’s door open and close.

 _Clearly, they want me both dead,_ Clove thought to herself. _But why would Lyme want me dead too? Why wouldn’t she want a victor regardless of who she was mentoring?_

Clove laid back on the bed and took a deep breath. Just when she had thought she had gotten rid of the chickens forever, she discovered two in her own alliance. 

She skipped dinner that night.

No one had bothered to check on her, anyways.


End file.
